Show Business is Murder

“So was everyone else. These poisons are not instantaneous. He was offstage with the other actors. Someone could have stuck him before he went on, the poison could have hit him just about then.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

I sighed. Good lord. Here I was, trapped with a small town hick from the sticks who hadn’t got a clue, who had done nothing but listen to people tell stories about me all day, and who was going to arrest me for the crime, just because he was incapable of imagining it the work of anybody else. “Pardon me,” I said, “but since I seem to be your favorite suspect, would it be impolite to inquire if you have any others?”

The cop flipped the pages of his notebook. “The playwright, Barnaby Farnsworth. Forty-two-year-old bathtub enclosure salesman, fancies himself a man of letters. (That is the right term, isn’t it-it’s been so long since college). Considers himself an intellectual, finds his job beneath him. He was entirely less concerned with the young man’s death than how it will affect his play. He didn’t like the young man much in the role, but preferred him greatly to the actor, Dean.

“Dean Stanhope, assistant manager at Burger King, resented the decedent, thought he was an arrogant showoff. Jealous of his success with women, particularly the actresses in the play.” He looked at me. “That’s your motive, also. At least the jealousy bit. Anyway, that’s him. Would probably be considered too ineffectual to do it, were it not for the cliche serial-killer profile of quiet, unassuming, kept to himself.

“The director, Morton Wainwright, resented the decedent because he eroded his authority by refusing to take direction and humiliated the poor soul whenever possible. You probably noticed that first hand.”

“I have. I can’t see killing him over it.”

“Me either. But it’s something to be considered.” He referred to his notes. “Morton Wainwright is thirty-seven, he’s a high school English teacher, married, two children, been active in community theater for the last two years, this is his third play.

“Then there’s Becky Coleman.”

“Who?”

“The actress playing Emily.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“No wonder Mr. Greengrass had more luck with the ladies.”

“I’m a married man.”

“She’s a married woman. She’s thirty-two, been married five years. Has two kids. That didn’t stop her from finding Mr. Greengrass most attractive. Unlucky for her, the man was a bit of a jerk, wasn’t at all discreet, practically everybody knew-except you, I guess-and she was quite concerned he might spill the beans to her husband unless she found some way to silence him first.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

The cop shrugged. “I thought you didn’t want to be the only one with a motive. Anyway, that’s hers. As for the other actress…”

“Shirley?”

“Ah, you know her name. So you’re not impervious to feminine charm. You at least notice women without undergarments. Perhaps you would have cause to eliminate a rival.”

“I thought we were discussing other people’s motives.”

“We were, we were. Miss Shirley Goodhue. Single, twenty-eight, hairdresser. Rumored to be the first of the two to be involved with the decedent. When I say rumored, that’s because these witness statements are so inaccurate. The women themselves are reticent, the observations of their peers are deficient, and the result is hopelessly inadequate.”

“May I ask what you majored in in college?”

“What, a cop can’t be literate? I read a lot, in between homicides. Luckily, there aren’t that many.”

“You don’t think a little experience might be of help?”

“Oh. Irony. I am cut to the quick. I may have to arrest you after all.”

“You were saying about Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?”

“Sorry. That’s her stage name. I mean Shirley.”

“Ah, yes. The lovely Shirley Goodhue. Apparently the first of the decedent’s affections. Which is significant in that if she felt herself replaced, so rudely and abruptly, by a married woman no less, perhaps to rub it in her face that she was nothing more than a brief dalliance…” He shrugged. “Well, a woman scorned. She would have every reason to hate young Mr. Greengrass. Wouldn’t you say she made a dandy suspect?”

“I prefer her to me.”

“How ungallant of you. Anyway, those are your chief suspects. You also have Sam Dobson, a harmless old coot of a stage manager. Seventy-seven, retired postman, living on a pension. Some men his age are sharp as a tack; Sam isn’t. Even with all the stories you hear about postal workers snapping, I bet you a nickel he didn’t do it.

“An even longer shot is the light man, Randy Haines, thirty-five, certified public accountant. He was in the light booth when it happened and didn’t see a thing.”

“And he resents it bitterly. I agree, he’s most unlikely.”

“So who did it? I gotta arrest somebody. Otherwise the people will feel I’m not doing my job. If you were me, who would you arrest?”

“I don’t think you have the evidence to arrest anyone.”

“Is that wishful thinking?”

“No. I just happen to have the advantage over you in knowing I didn’t do it.”

“You have any idea who did?”

“Not really.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes. But it occurs to me, there might be a way to find out.”

“Oh? And just what might that be?”

“Re-enact the crime.”

THE SUSPECTS WERE all seated in the audience. Actually, they were seated in the gym on folding chairs, right under one of the basketball hoops, which in theory would be cranked up out of sight for performances, but was left down for rehearsals. The suspects consisted of the playwright, the director, the stage manager, the light man, and the three remaining actors.

I didn’t count myself as a suspect. If that’s unfair, sue me.

Also on hand were the cop and the detective, back from dropping the pin off at the lab.

The cop stood on the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to hold you here. But we must clear up this crime. Because it is a crime, without doubt. Fletcher Greengrass did not die of a heart attack, or stroke, or any such natural cause. He was killed by a lethal poison injected into the skin. The implement was a small straight pin. It is being analyzed now. I have no doubt it will prove to contain a fast acting poison of some type. It remains for us to prove who injected Mr. Greengrass, and why. In order to do so, we are going to go over the movements leading up to his death.

“I am going to ask you all to take your positions. Randy Haines is in the light booth. Sam Dobson is at the stage manager stand, backstage next to the curtain. As to the actors, Becky Coleman and Dean Stanhope, you’re both behind the left doorway, are you not?

“The right doorway,” the director corrected.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stage directions refer to the actor’s left or right. Assuming the actor is facing the audience. So that would be the stage right doorway.”

“Fine. You two are there. Shirley Goodhue, you’re over there in the doorway that I’ve just learned is stage left.

“Mr. Hastings is on stage alone, about to be joined by the decedent, who will be entering by… that doorway there… now you’ve got me confused.”

“Upstage right.”